WRICHT  KAUFFMAN 


'^1  w'- 


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in  2007  with  funding  from 

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The  Ancient  Quest-'-?:  v.    •:,: 
And  Other  Poems  In  BVbwii ''•'•"' 


BY 
REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

Author  of  "The  House  of  Bondage,"  "My  Heart  and 
Stephanie,"  "The  Mark  of  the  Beast,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES 

PUBLISHER 


?^c/r« 


Copyrighted,  1917,  by 

ROBERT  J.  SHORES 

New  York 


TO 

GEORGE  HORACE  LORIMER 

WHOSE  EDITORIAL  DISCRIMINATION  ACCEPTED 

SOME  OF  THESE  VERSES 
AND  WHOSE  FRIENDSHIP  APPROVED  STILL  MORE 

8.   w.   K. 


4422S8 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

In  collecting  these  poems,  I  am  gratefully  in- 
debted to  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  Ains- 
lee's  Magazine,  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The 
Bellman,  The  Country  Gentleman,  The  De- 
lineator, The  Forum,  Harper's  Weekly  (now 
incorporated  with  The  Independent),  The 
Harvard  Monthly^  Life,  The  Masses,  The 
Metropolitan,  Munsey's,  The  Saturday  Even- 
ing Post,  The  Smart  Set  and  several  magazines 
published  in  England. 

R.  W.  K. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Call 9 

At  the   Gates 10 

Offertory 12 

Two  Singers 14 

My  Rose 15 

Man  and  Poet     .      .     .• 16 

When  the  Gods  Relent 18 

The  Secret  Garden 19 

Nepenthe 20 

LiLiTH 21 

Unto  This  Last 23 

Love's  Eucharist 25 

The  Roisterer 26 

The  Summons 27 

Her  Photograph  . 29 

The  Boss 32 

In   Blossom   Time 34 

The  End  of  a  Chapter  . 36 

Yesterdays 38 

Light  O'  Love 40 

April   In    Paris 42 

Exiled 44 

Maria  Peripatetica 46 

The  Old  Boulevardier 49 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Other  Poems  In  Brown 53 

The  American 55 

The  Western  Goad 56 

Abraham  Lincoln 58 

Heroes  of  Yesterday 60 

Mexico 63 

Nocturne   .     .     .   / 67 

Justice 69 

The  Law  of  the  Talons 71 

The  March  of  the  Hungry  Men   ...  73 

My  Brother 76 

A  Child  Paralytic 78 

The  Seeker 80 

St.  Paul's  School 82 

The  Suburbanite 83 

The  Gothamite 85 

Return 87 

War 88 

lupercalia 95 

Romance 96 

Time's  Revenges 99 

Troia  Fuit! 100 

The  Ninety  Millions loi 

"  And  There  Were  Shepherds  "  .     .     .     .  103 

Easter — 1917 105 

The  Great  Adventure 109 

The  Wastrel iii 

The  Son  of  Joel 114 


THE  CALL 

Love  comes  laughing  up  the  valleys, 
Hand  in  hand  with  hoyden  Spring; 

All  the  Flower-people  nodding, 
All  the  Feathered  Folk  a-wing. 

"  Higher !     Higher !  "  call  the  thrushes ; 

"  Wider  I     Freer !  "  breathe  the  trees; 
And  the  purple  mountains  beckon 

Upward  to  their  mysteries : 

Always  farther  leagues  to  wander, 
Peak  to  peak  and  slope  to  slope; 

Lips  to  sing  and  feet  to  follow, 
Eyes  to  dream  and  heart  to  hope. 

Tarry?     Nay,  but  who  can  tarry? 

All  the  world  is  on  the  wing: 
Love  comes  laughing  up  the  valleys. 

Hand  in  hand  with  hoyden  Spring  I 
9 


AT  THE  GATES 

Turn  back  the  years,  dumbfound  the  roar 

Of  city  life  on  crowded  street, 
And  let  me  dream  I  see  the  shore 

Where  two  of  old  were  wont  to  meet. 

Was  love,  I  wonder,  quite  so  sweet 
As  painted  now  by  memory? 

Was  joy  so  keen?     Was  time  so  fleet? 
Turn  back  the  years  that  I  may  see. 

Can  Sleep,  perchance,  those  days  restore. 
The  Gate  of  Horn  those  songs  repeat? 

What  was  it  in  that  youth  of  yore 

Changed  Pleasure  from  the  arrant  cheat 
Whom  now  with  ever-wearied  feet 

We  follow  vainly?     Can  it  be 

'Tis  we  have  changed?     Oh,  I  entreat, 

Turn  back  the  years  that  I  may  see ! 

May  see  in  truth:  for  blind,  and  more, 
I  live  my  life  in  city  seat. 

10 


AT  THE  GATES 

Bring  back  but  once  the  golden  lore 
We  learned  amid  the  fields  of  wheat, 
And  on  the  hills  where  white  herds  bleat, 

And  underneath  the  island  tree 

Where  waves  of  silver  break  and  beat  — 

Turn  back  the  years  that  I  may  see. 

L'Envoi 
Somnus,  'mid  Winter  rain  and  sleet, 

I  raise  this  single  prayer  to  thee : 
Make  place  for  me  In  thy  retreat. 

Turn  back  the  years  that  I  may  see ! 


II 


OFFERTORY 

Give  me  your  eyes  so  young,  so  grey; 

Give  me  your  hands  so  firm,  so  small; 
Give  me  the  trembling  lips  that  say: 

"  But  do  you  love  me,  after  all?" 
Give  me  the  roses  from  your  cheek, 

Where  firefly  blushes  dance  and  dart; 
Give  me  the  word  you  fear  to  speak : 

Give  me  your  glad  girl  heart! 

Take  of  my  little  what  you  will  — 

The  books  I  read,  the  books  I  write; 
The  work  I  do,  or  good  or  ill ; 

My  brief  provision  of  delight; 
Take  all  my  service,  all  my  thought ; 

Take  honour  —  that  I  never  sold!  — 
And  give  what  never  can  be  bought : 

Your  heart  of  virgin  gold. 

Nay,  I  who  am  so  poor  in  gifts 
May  only  for  your  mercy  cry, 

12 


OFFERTORY 

As  when  the  priestly  suppliant  lifts 
The  humblest  offering  on  high: 

A  sacrifice  of  doubt  and  dole!  — 
Before  the  incense-wreaths  depart, 

My  Little  Lady  Pure  of  Soul, 
Give  me  your  glad  girl  heart! 


13 


TWO  SINGERS 

The  bird  that  mounts  the  morning  sky 

Beyond  the  gaze  of  earth-bound  men 
Sees  planets  burning  by  the  sun 

That  have  no  place  within  our  ken; 
His  lyric  has  a  joy  above 

The  hope  of  winning  any  sphere 
Save  that  he  left  —  is  lost  to  them : 

Only  the  bird  himself  can  hear.  .  .  . 

Your  eyes  are  like  the  burnished  stars 

In  that  wide  Heaven  whereto  I  pray; 
And,  like  the  burnished  stars  of  Heaven, 

Are  very,  very  far  away ! 
I  may  not  rise,  however  I  sing. 

On  pinions  broken  since  my  birth  — 
Dear,  is  there  nothing  that  will  bring 

Your  Heaven  nearer  to  my  earth? 


14 


MY  ROSE 

Heavy  with  pink  and  mignonette, 
The  garden's  Incense  at  your  shrine, 
Throughout  the  quiet  of  your  room 
The  very  twilight  Is  abloom ; 
The  air  is  effervescent  wine. 
Drugged  with  the  purple  violet. 

Beyond  your  window,  where  are  wont 
To  feed  the  birds  that  love  you  best, 
Afar,  amid  supernal  tides. 
The     new-launched     moon.      Inviting, 
rides  — 
A  silver  shallop  come  to  rest 
Upon  a  silent  Hellespont. 

Below  us  —  oh,  so  close  that  he 
Is  almost  here !  —  a  nightingale 
Persuades  his  pensive,  vestal  rose  I 
Lean  nearer.     How  the  music  grows  I 
Love,  can  such  pleading  ever  fail? 
My  rose  what  will  your  answer  be? 
15 


MAN  AND  POET 

Break  my  heart  —  and  make  a  poet; 

Give  me  love  —  and  end  my  song; 
That's  the  truth,  and  well  I  know  it 

Who  have  loved  you  overlong. 

Poet  dreams  and  lover  lives  it: 
He  that  loses  hymns  the  theme; 

He  that  finds  love  where  he  gives  it 
Lives  what  poets  only  dream. 

Break  my  heart,  and  I  will  sing  you 
Crowns  of  laurel  and  of  bay; 

Love  me,  dear,  and  I  shall  bring  you 
Only  what  no  songs  can  say. 

Though  to  song  I  prove  a  traitor, 
There  is  right  beyond  the  wrong, 

For  the  smallest  man  is  greater 
Than  the  very  greatest  song. 


i6 


MAN  AND  POET 

And  the  poet's  way  is  lonely, 
Flint  beneath  and  thorn  above 

O,  my  love,  if  you  would  only  — 
Only  give  me  love ! 


17 


WHEN  THE  GODS  RELENT 

Last  night  I  kissed  you  while  you  slept, 
When  night,  receding,  kissed  the  day; 

Into  your  little  room  I  crept. 

Where,  like  a  weary  flower,  you  lay. 

I  bent  above  your  glorious  head 

And  whispered  words  you  may  not  hear; 

You  did  not  stir  upon  your  bed, 
Nor  even  dream  that  I  was  near. 

You  did  not  dream  the  miracle: 

That  my  dear  dreams  were  coming  true ; 
You  never  thought  that  I  would  kneel 
Before  you  there;  you  did  not  feel 
My  arms  as  they  enfolded  you. 

And  yet  I  kissed  you  while  the  West 

Shone  star-bright  and  the  East  grew  grey, 

Lips  close  to  lips  and  breast  to  breast  — 
Though  I  was  miles  and  miles  away ! 
i8 


THE  SECRET  GARDEN 

C  //  faut  cultiver  notre  jardin.'^) 

What  Is  it  that  my  friends  declare  — 
"  There's  winter  raging  in  the  air?  " 
Perhaps;  I  have  not  noticed,  for 
At  dawn  I  sought  the  hidden  door 
And  entered,  by  a  dead  sun's  beams, 
The  secret  Garden  of  my  Dreams. 

What  does  it  matter  if  the  rain 
Beats  on  my  narrow  window-pane? 
If  all  the  throng  that  come  and  go 
Wear  the  grey  panoply  of  woe? 
If  down  below  me  in  the  street 
The  pave  is  black  with  wind  and  sleet? 

I  cultivate  the  plot  where  grows, 
Untouched,  the  myrtle  and  the  rose  — 
The  myrtle  sweeter  than  the  bay, 
The  pure  white  Rose  of  Yesterday. 
What  though  the  world  in  sackcloth  seems? 
I  keep  the  Garden  of  my  Dreams! 
19 


NEPENTHE 

I  drink  to  red-lipped  Circe  of  the  vine, 
Whose  magic  mars  the  memory  of  care, 

And  in  whose  fluent  smile  benignly  shine 

(Changed  now  to  pearls)  the  tear-drops  of 
despair. 

I  take  her  hand  —  and  lol  the  hand  is  Fame's! 

She  speaks  —  and  wisdom  wings  her  lightest 
breath; 
She  is  the  Goddess  of  the  Many  Names, 

And  in  her  arms  waits  ignorance  of  death; 

But  best  of  all,  her  lips,  cajoling  mine, 
Become  the  lips  I  have  desired  in  vain, 

And  in  the  easy  kisses  of  the  wine 
I  catch  the  kisses  I  could  never  gain. 


20 


LILITH 

Through  miles  of  sea,  asunder, 

Through  leagues  of  land,  apart, 
Who  loves  you  now,  I  wonder, 

And  bares  and  breaks  his  heart? 
What  timid  lad,  uncertain. 

Says  all  I  used  to  say? 
Whose  hand  now  draws  your  curtain 

Against  reviving  day? 

O,  face  that  is  a  flower 

Turned  ever  toward  the  sun ! 
O,  frail  hands  quick  with  power. 

Winning  and  never  won ! 
O,  white  limbs  lithe  and  agile ! 

Where  else  may  man  learn  of 
A  heart  so  firm  and  fragile 

In  bondage  to  Lord  Love  ? 

The  little  men,  contented. 
Labor  and  eat  and  sleep 

21 


LILITH 

In  houses  they  have  rented, 
With  wives  they  buy  and  keep 

But  lovers  that  have  tasted 
Your  lips,  your  lips  pursue; 

Forever  wander  wasted; 
Forever  thirst  for  you. 

Like  Cyprian  summer,  hither 

You  come,  when  life  is  sweet: 
You  flee,  and  all  things  wither 

Beneath  basilean  feet  — 
Fly  on  beyond  returning 

Along  your  primrose  way, 
And  leave  a  memory  burning 

No  other  loves  allay. 


22 


UNTO  THIS  LAST 

It  must  end,  then?     Now?     Tonight? 
Well,  I  have  but  this  to  write: 

High  design  and  dear  desire 
Went  to  feed  your  altar-fire  — 
Honour  and  ambition  toss'd 
In  the  flame,  nor  counted  lost. 
Elfin-gold?     Ah,  false  or  true, 
What  I  had  I  gave  to  you  — 
All;  and  you  (how  shall  I  say?) 
Took  it,  smiled  and  glanced  away: 
Quick  to  love  me,  yes ;  and  yet 
Even  quicker  to  forget! 
Half  a  humming-bird  and  half 
Woman.     I  can  hear  you  laugh ; 
Careless,  If  the  world  be  kind. 
Of  the  wounds  you  leave  behind  — 
Heedless,  heartless,  beautiful  .  .  . 

That's  my  kind  of  love  —  to  do 
All  these  things  again  for  you ; 
23 


UNTO  THIS  LAST 

I  would  be  a  goblet  wrought 

For  your  pleasure;  life  and  thought 

Crushed  for  you  to  drink  of;  then, 

With  the  cups  of  other  men 

Offered,  just  to  hear  you  say, 

"  It  was  sweet  " —  and  toss  away  I 


LOVE'S  EtJCHARIST 

As  timorous  boy  who,  at  calm  Eastertide 
Taking  his  First  Communion,  startled,  sips 
The  holy  blood  of  Christ  between  his  lips, 
Fresh-flowing  from  the  newly  pierced  side ; 
And  as  he  bows  his  head  and,  undenied, 

Takes  his  God's  body  in  his  teeth,  now  dips 
My  face  to  thine,  now  to  my  finger-tips 
Thrill  hope,  love,  reverence,  gladdened,  glori- 
fied. 
This  my  Communion,  Benediction  this; 

And  when  without  the  Gate  of  Heaven  I  see 
God,  who  declares,  "  Thou  knewest  me  not 
for  sin," 
Then  will  I  plead:     "  I  knew  Thee  in  her  kiss; 
Better  than  Thou  loved'st  her,  or  I  loved 
Thee 
Did  I  love   her.*'^ — And  God  will  say: 
''  Come  in." 


25 


THE  ROISTERER 

Your  little  hand  is  like  a  rose, 

With  white  rose-petals  half-uncurled; 

My  kiss  is  like  a  wind  that  blows 
From  ail-across  the  world. 

It  dartles  down  the  garden  aisle, 
It  brushes  flower  and  weed  away 

Unheedingly  —  until,  awhile, 
It  halts,  as  if  to  pray, 

And  bends  above  the  white,  white  rose. 

And  gently,  where  the  leaves  are  wet. 
Touches  their  tips;  then  forward  goes 
Where    the    gods    drive;    where,    no    man 
knows  — 

Dear,  will  the  rose 
Forget? 


26 


THE  SUMMONS 

Oh,  Summer's  in  the  land  again,  and  Summer's 
ll  on  the  sea ; 

Across  the  blue  horizon-rim,  the  old  gods  beckon 
me; 

The  little  ships  ride  restless  at  their  anchors  in 
the  bay; 

The  birds  are  trooping  northward,  dear,  and  I 
must  be  away. 

I  see  the  Savoy  mountains  white;  I  hear  the 
sheep-bells  ring 

Below  me  in  the  valley  where  the  dancing  chil- 
dren sing; 

And  high  above  the  timber-line,  along  the  gla- 
cier-track. 

The  ice-fields  and  the  summit-snows,  they  whis- 
per me:     "Comeback!" 

It's  well  I  know  your  tender  heart  and  kindli- 
ness and  grace, 

And  well  I  know  the  gentle  light  that  sanctifies 
your  face; 


27 


I 


THE  SUMMONS 

But  sun  and  wind  are  calling  me  throughout  the 

livelong  day 
From  distant  lands  I  used  to  know  —  from  all 

the  Far- Away. 
Oh,  Summer's  on  the  hills  again,  and  Summer's 

on  the  sea, 
And  Summer's  In  my  heart,  and  you  —  well, 

you  must  set  me  free  I 


2S 


HER  PHOTOGRAPH 

And  this  was  Jenny!     This  slim  girl 
JVith  merry  face  and  truant  curl, 
fVith  dancing,  daring  eyes  that  fence, 
And  air  of  roguish  innocence, 
IV hose  parted  lips  turn  up  and  laugh 
From  out  this  faded  photograph! 

Only  five  years  ago,  and  she 
Was  one  and  part  of  us,  and  we 
No  better  than  we  ought  to  be  — 

Tom,  Dick  and  Harry. 
Of  one  of  us  the  less  that's  said 
The  better;  Harry's  safely  dead. 
And  Dick,  his  wild  oats  harvested, 

Intends  to  marry. 

Far  in  some  convent's  cloistered  close 

There  languishes  our  tall  red  Rose, 

And  Belle  is  gone  —  where  no  man  knows. 

Or  cares  a  penny. 
Tomorrow  changed  to  Yesterday; 

29 


HER  PHOTOGRAPH 

We  lost  each  other,  I  and  they  — 
Tonight  a  turning  of  the  way, 
And  there  was  Jenny! 

Yet  not  the  same.  .  .  .  The  play  was  flat. 
And  I  could  gaze  serenely  at 
The  curtained  box  wherein  she  sat. 

Begemmed,  brocaded  .  .  . 
("  Oh,  that's  her  husband  at  her  side," 
My  neighbor  casually  replied.)    .  .  . 
She  yawned.     I  wonder  if  she  sighed. 

I'm  sure  she's  faded. 

And  so  the  girl  I  used  to  know 
About  Dick's  poor  old  studio 
Now's  *'  the  rich  Mrs.  So-and-So  " — 

The  thing's  astounding! 
Yet  stranger  things  have  fallen  out. 
And  that  was  Jenny  (there's  no  doubt). 
Whatever  chance  has  brought  about 

This  pass  confounding. 

Well,  only  Jenny,  of  the  three. 
Succeeded !     Does  her  memory 
E'er  turn  to  all  that  used  to  be? 
In  faith,  I  doubt  it! 
30 


HER  PHOTOGRAPH 

And  who  is  happiest  —  poor  Belle, 
Poor  Jenny,  or  poor  Rose?     Ah,  well. 
The  answer  none  of  us  can  tell  — 
We're  best  without  it. 

So  that  was  Jenny!     That  tall  dame, 
Who  bore  a  rich  man^s  sordid  name 
And  purse;  that  woman  weary-eyed, 
Satisfied,  yet  unsatisfied! 
How  can  her  young  lips  seem  to  laugh 
From  out  this  faded  photograph? 


31 


THE  BOSS 

As  a  boy,  I  used  to  know  — 

Oh,  but  it  was  long  ago !  — 
An  old-fashioned  garden,  where, 
In  the  drowsy  country  air. 

Bloomed,  through  formal  row  on  row. 
Bleeding-heart  and  modest  phlox. 
Flanked  by  crimson  hollyhocks; 

Bluebells,  morning-glories  blue; 
Sweet  William  that  each  evening  heard 
The  vespers  of  the  mocking-bird; 

Roses  and  violets  —  and  you ! 

Now  often  —  when  my  office  door 
Shuts  out  the  deep  street's  distant  roar, 
The  click,  the  giggle,  drawl  and  purr 
Of  work  and  clerk,  stenographer 
And  errand-boy  and  customer  — 
I,  in  the  room  marked  "  Private :     No 
Admittance,"  let  my  fancy  go, 
32 


THE  BOSS 

Though  I've  a  hundred  things  to  do, 
Back  to  that  garden  —  and  to  you. 

Today,  with  nerves  of  tempered  steel, 
I  put  across  my  biggest  deal, 

The  fruit  of  dreams  and  toll  and  tears; 
I  closed  the  book,  I  set  the  seal, 

I  won  what  I  have  hoped  for  years; 
And  then,  with  air  that  owns  no  betters. 
The  haughty  girl  that  "  takes  my  letters  " 
Left  on  my  desk-tobacco-box 
A  single  simple  sprig  of  phlox.  .  .  . 

And  I  would  give  the  battle  won 
And  all  the  deeds  that  I  have  done 
To  find  the  garden  that  I  knew 
When  I  was  young  and  you  were  —  you  I 


33 


IN  BLOSSOM-TIME 

Yuri-San  —  Yurl-San ! 
Since  Aprilean  boughs  began 
Filtering  the  blue  and  gold 
Through  their  blossoms  manifold, 
I  have  dreamed  of  old  Japan 
Once  again  —  and  Yuri-San. 

I  have  heard  the  high-shod  feet 
Patter  down  the  crooked  street; 
Looked  at  lacquered  beauties  dance, 
Weaving  webs  of  old  romance 
(Gossamer  alight  with  dew, 
Binding  all  my  heart  to  you) ; 
Flitting  feet  and  flirting  fan, 
Flashing  eyes  —  and  Yuri-San. 

Dreamed  —  and  wakened  far  away 
In  a  flaming  Western  day, 
Where  the  only  breath  of  air 
Faints  across  a  city  square; 
Where  the  mill  of  traffic  runs, 
34 


IN  BLOSSOM-TIME 

Roaring  on  between  the  suns, 
Grinding  life  and  love  forspent 
In  a  weary  Occident: 
Happier  you  In  old  Japan, 
Dead  and  dreaming,  Yuri-San. 


35 


THE  END  OF  A  CHAPTER 

I  find  it  is  the  little  things  that  last, 

And  make  the  picture  when  the  model's  fled : 

Her  throbbing  voice;  the  way  she  tossed  her 

head, 
Coquetting.     When  the  memory  is  past 
Of  line  and  feature,  then  mere  trifles  get 
Their  fingers  on  the  brushes. 

Henriette 
Was  of  that  sort;  illusive,  here-and-there. 
I  knew  her  quite  two  winters  —  loved  her  one : 
The  moment  that  the  narrative  was  done, 
I  hardly  could  have  told  you  if  her  hair 
Was  black  or  golden.     (There,  I  often  think. 
Lay  half  her  charm:  a  man  could  look  and  drink 
Great  draughts  of  all  her  prettiness,  and  then 
Go,  and  forget,  and  long  to  drink  again!) 
Even  tonight :  five  years  ago  we  said 
Good-bye  without  a  heart-break;  were  I  sent 
Da  Vinci's  art  to  fetch  that  lineament 
Most  fleeting  and  intrinsic  back  to  me, 

36 


THE  END  OF  A  CHAPTER 

And  paint  on  my  spick  canvas  her  dim  head 
That  all  her  world  might  there  acclaim  it  she, 
Da  Vinci's  art  would  fail  me  utterly;  .  .  . 

Although  I  know  her  still  —  her  laugh,  her 

frown ; 
And  how,  at  moments,  her  unwavering  eyes 
That  were  all  innocence,  could  be  all-wise ; 
A  dimple,  darting  like  a  butterfly 
About  the  flowers  in  the  pink  and  white 
Glad  garden  of  her  cheek;  the  leaping  light 
Lost  in  the  wedding  of  a  smile  and  sigh; 
The  perfume  of  her  hair,  and  how  the  rose 
She  wore  once  at  her  throat  acquired  new  grace ; 
And  that  shy  sadness  her  unconscious  face 
Wore  in  Its  moments  of  untaught  repose. 

And  that  is  all?     It  should  be  all,  and  yet 
This  last  remains :  that  I  recall  that  I 
Have  wooed  so  often  her  fair  memory  — 
While  she  was  ever  ready  to  forget! 


37 


YESTERDAYS 

Douarnenez  in  Finistere ! 

I  passed  a  purple  autumn  there 

Where  sabots  clattered  down  the  street, 
And  lads  were  lithe  and  maids  were  sweet 
(We  little  recked  that  Time  was  fleet!) 

And  life  and  love  were  in  the  air. 

In  red  and  grey  and  the  low-roofed  town 
Right  to  the  harbor-mouth  ran  down; 
The  church,  with  quaint,  decrepit  grace, 
Fronted  the  ancient  market-place 
Where  first  I  saw  her  flower-face : 
Jeanne's  face  that  never  learned  to  frown. 

Though  life  to  alien  cities  brings 
My  steps,  that  picture  lives  and  sings : 

The  girl  in  medieval  dress, 

Her  head  erect,  through  joy  and  stress 

All  dignity  and  loveliness: 
A  peasant  with  the  soul  of  kings. 
38 


YESTERDAYS 

How  I  recall  that  sailor's  son, 

Pierre,  whom  all  men  called  '*  Le  Brun," 
And  how  I  hated  him  wjien  he 
Came  with  the  fishers  from  the  sea 
(For  was  not  Jeanne  the  world  to  me?) 

And  ended  what  was  scarce  begun!  .  .  . 

It  mattered  much;  it  matters  naught: 
The  story  stops  where  stories  ought; 
For  always  through  the  world,  I  trust. 
Youth  turns  to  youth  and  gold  to  rust, 
And  dust  returns  again  to  dust  — 
Love  wins  what  money  never  bought. 


39 


LIGHT  O'  LOVE 

Your  lips  met  mine  so  lightly 

In  that  Algerian  May, 
I  said :     **  What  comes  thus  brightly 

Will  soonest  fade  away." 

Alas,  before  the  morrow 
I  learned  it  was  not  true : 

He  said  "  Come  in  "  to  Sorrow 
Who  said  "  Good-bye  "  to  you  I 

No  other  lips  can  ever 

Mean  quite  what  your  lips  meant 
At  that  farewell,  and  never 

Another  kiss  content. 

No  man  but  one  day  learns  it 
And  loves  the  veiled  regret; 

The  fire  that  leaps  and  burns  it, 
His  heart  cannot  forget. 
40 


LIGHT  O'  LOVE 

Whatever  else  he  misses, 
Those  memories  remain; 

The  lighter  fall  the  kisses, 
The  longer  lasts  the  pain. 


APRIL  IN  PARIS 

The  scent  of  spring  is  in  the  air 

Tonight  —  tonight ; 
The  moon,  high  above  Montparnasse 
Gleams  like  a  disk  of  yellow  glass; 

The  roofs  are  white. 
I  lean  from  this  high  window,  where 
Two  leaned  together  once,  and  there 
Wait  for  your  tread  upon  the  stair 
Tonight. 

Nothing  is  altered:  I  can  see, 

Tonight  —  tonight. 
The  cobbled  rue  St.  Jacques  below, 
Down  which  you  used  to  come  and  go 

With  footstep  light; 
And  everything  that  memory 
These  ten  long  years  kept  fresh  for  me 
Remains  just  as  it  used  to  be, 
Tonight. 


42 


APRIL  IN  PARIS 

Here  to  the  little  room  I  came 

Tonight  —  tonight, 
Where,  having  lived,  we  said  good-bye ; 
Whence,  having  loved,  went  dry  of  eye, 

Untroubled  quite. 
How  youth  can  hope  I     How  hope  can  cheat ! 
"  A  year,'*  we  said,  "  and  we  shall  meet." — 
Ten  years !     And  where  are  you,  petite, 
Tonight  ? 


43 


EXILED 

Springtime  again  in  Paris!     Laughter  and  song 

and  May 
From  Neuilly  Gate  to  Pere  La  Chaise,  Par- 

nasse  to  Rue  Riquetf 
Springtime  again  in  Paris  —  and  I  am  seas 

away! 

The  conquering  sun  comes  marching  beneath 
the  Arc,  and  there, 

Sharp  to  the  left,  adown  the  Bois,  go  trotting 
pair  and  pair; 

The  Tuileries  Gardens  glitter  with  ribbon-gay 
nourrices, 

And  even  sculptured  Fenelon  smiles  up  at  St. 
Sulplce. 

The  very  pave  is  merry  with  helterskelter  feet; 

The  Faubourg  and  the  Quartier  rub  shoulders 
on  the  street, 

And  down  the  boulevards  again  the  table-chat- 
ter swings, 

44 


EXILED 

For  it  Is  May  In  Paris,  and  the  pulse  of  Paris 
sings. 

I  know  the  lamps  will  sparkle  soon  throughout 

the  capital, 
Irradiating  all  Montmartre,  but  most  the  Place 

Pigalle; 
And,  oh,  tonight  I  wonder:  Is  Pepe  Fernan 

there. 
And  Ceclle  and  DeBronsky,  Xerine  and  suave 

Albert? 
Does  Concha  Mendez  sing  tonight?     Do  DIrce 

and  Clarice 
And  Eulalie  and  Melanie  whirl  In  the  mad 

mattchkhe? 
Oh,  Leonine  and  Fanchon,  Julie,  Celeste,  LI- 

zette. 
My  heart  is  beating  with  you;  my  dreams  are 

with  you  yet! 

Springtime  again  in  Paris!     Laughter  and  song 

and  May 
From  Neuilly  Gate  to  Pere  La  Chaise,  Parnasse 

to  Rue  Riquet! 
Springtime  again  in  Paris  —  and  I  am  years 

away! 

45 


MARIA  PERIPATETICA 

Sad,  painted  flower,  cast   unwist 

Into  Life's  lap;  poor  face  that  Fate 
Has  mocked  at,  drunk  to,  smitten,  kissed 
Until  I  read  the  rune  thereof 
With  more  in  it  to  love  than  hate, 
With  more  to  pity  than  to  love : 

What  nights  were  thine!     What  morns  had 
they 
Whose  sleep  was  incense,  vital,  rare, 
Burned  Into  ashes  by  the  day 

Before  thy  desecrated  shrine! 
Thy  barren  bosom  freed  their  care, 
Because  its  milk  was  bitter  wine. 

Of  all  who  loved  and  let  thee  go. 

Is  there  not  one  whose  lips  Impressed 
Their  stamp  upon  thy  memory  so  — 

Or  dark  or  fair,  or  black  or  white  — 
His  eyes  outsparkle  all  the  rest. 
The  casual  Antonies  of  night? 

46 


MARIA  PERIPATETICA 

Of  all  the  mouths  thy  mouth  hath  drained, 

Of  all  the  bodies  thine  hath  sought 
And  clung  to,  mad,  desired,  disdained, 
In  that  long  catalogue  of  dole. 
Is  there  not  one  that  something  taught, 
His  soul  embracing  thy  lost  soul? 

That  fair  first  lover  on  whose  head 

Thy  maiden  shame  and  passion  place  — 
Living  and  loving,  or  purged  and  dead  — 
So  rich  a  crown  of  memory 
That  to  thine  Inner  heart  his  face 
A  sinning  saint's  seems:  is  it  he? 

Or  is  it  some  poor  drunken  fool. 

Wiser  than  thou  —  God  save  the  mark!  — 
In  that  salacious,  brutal  school 

Where  beasts,  as  thou  and  I  are,  sweat 
Over  the  Lessons  of  the  Dark, 

Whom  thou  recall'st  with  dear  regret? 

Perhaps  some  country  lad,  who  came 

Fresh  from  his  home  to  town  and  thee. 
Is  closest  —  his  the  charmed  name  — 

Whp  with  the  parting  tears  fresh  shed 
47 


MARIA  PERIPATETICA 

And  all  his  sweet  virginity 

Thy  sacramental  table  spread? 

My  canker-eaten  rose,  what  then? 

My  scape-goat  of  an  out-worn  code, 
''  All  things,"  said  Paul,  "  unto  all  men  " — 
So  thou,  who  with  the  setting  sun 
Farest  nightly  on  the  endless  road. 
To  all  men  mistress,  wife  to  none  1 

But  mine  tonight,  though  not  to  kiss  I 

I  lay  my  head  upon  that  breast 
Whose  scar  our  sisters'  safety  is. 
And,  from  our  darkest  misery, 
To  beg  thy  mercy  is  my  quest. 
Lest  that  we  perish  utterly. 

Forgive  our  women's  scornful  glance. 

Our  poor,  pale,  pure  maidens  decorous. 
Virgins  by  purse  and  circumstance; 
Forgive  the  tiger  tusk  and  claw; 
Forgive  the  law  that  made  thee  thus ;  — 
Forgive  the  God  that  made  the  lawl 


48 


THE  OLD  BOULEVARDIER 

All  the  women  I've  been  friends  with  (for  a 
night  or  for  a  decade  — 
For  a  soul  or  for  a  body  —  for  a  tress  of 
black  or  gold!)  — 
How  I  managed  to  forget  them  in  my  youth 
when  they  pursued  me ; 
How   their  memory  pursues  me  now  they 
shun  me  once  I'm  old! 
At  this  boulevard-table  seated  with  my  opal 
glass  before  me, 
Of  the  living  faces  passing  none  to  love  or 
know  me  seems; 
Yet  about  them  and  above  them 
(How  they  know  me!     How  I   love 
them!) 
They,  the  dead  girls,  jostle,  thronging 
With  an  eloquence  of  longing 
Through  a  mist  of  tears  and  laughter  down  the 
the  pavement  of  my  dreams. 


49 


THE  OLD  BOULEVARDIER 

Claudine,  Gabrielle  and  Clara  (for  a  brown  eye, 
for  a  blue  eye, 
For  a  hand  to  clasp)   or  Frangoise   (for  a 
bosom  bold  and  strong)  : 
They   were   Second   Empire   spirits   when   the 
court  of  Little  Louis 
Taught  the  mode  of  little  passions  that  were 
neither  light  nor  long! 
Delie,  Daughter  of  the  People,  Communarde 
(old  Thiers  shot  her 
With  a  hundred  of  her  sisters  by  the  wall  of 
Pere  La  Chaise)   .  .  . 
Jeanne  is  dead  and  Julie  married. 
Laure,  who  fled,  and  Paule,  who  tar- 
ried: 
All  that  kissed  and  cursed,  forgetting, 
I  remember  unregretting  — 
To  the  painted  bought-and-paid-for  Phrynes 
of  the  later  days. 

What  a  brave  life,  that!     I  knew  them,  dark 
and  fair  and  all  conditions, 
'  For  a  kiss  or  for  a  louis,  for  a  drive  along 
the  Bois, 
For  their  lingerie  of  laces. 
For  a  blush-box  for  their  faces, 
50 


THE  OLD  BOULEVARDIER 

For  a  supper  after  Patti  — "  Norma  "  at  the 
Opera. 
Now  ?     Well,    even   yet,    I    wager  —  Gargon, 
bring  again  the  bottle. 
If  it  please  you  —  There's  a  chic  one!  — 
Did  she  mean  that  smile  for  me? 
If  this  absinthe  were  not  by  me,  I  would  show 
you  1  —  She's  like  Fanchon, 
That  grisette  I  loved  and  buried  in  Mont- 
martre  in  'Eighty-three. 
Yet  so  odd  a  thing  is  fancy, 
Such  a  riddled  necromancy. 
That  the  clearest  face  of  all  to  me  is  one  both 
pure  and  cold  — 
One:  an  unkissed  child  of  Heaven, 
Whom  I  loved  when  scarce  eleven.  .  .  . 
How  I  managed  to  forget  them  in  my  youth 
when  they  pursued  me ; 
How  their  memory  pursues  me  now  they  shun 
me  —  and  I'm  old ! 


51 


OTHER  POEMS  IN  BROWN 


THE  AMERICAN 

He  takes  the  creeds  of  every  land, 

Creeds  that  both  false  and  futile  seemed, 

And  by  the  work  of  his  own  hand 
He  animates  the  thing  they  dreamed; 

Today  he  keeps  their  fast  or  feast 
As  they,  the  dead  men,  kept  it  then; 

But  in  the  West,  and  not  the  East, 
He  looks  for  Christ  to  come  again. 


55 


THE  WESTERN  GOAD 

"  And  the  Mount  of  Olives  shall  cleave  in 
the  midst  thereof  toward  the  east  and  toward 
the  westJ^ — Zech.  xiv,  4. 

"  Westward !  "  the  Aryan  chieftain  cried,  when 
daylight  smouldered  from  the  West, 

And  thence,  across  the  Ural  peaks,  began  man- 
kind's eternal  quest. 

Westward  the  swart  Phoenicians  toiled  through 
bays  unknown  and  seas  unwon; 

And  westward  fought  from  burning  Troy,  to 
build  a  world,  Anchises'  son. 

The  Goths  that  cursed  in  templed  Rome;  the 

Vandal  riders  raiding  Spain; 
The   blond   Norse   conquerors   that   slew   the 

Prankish  lord,  the  Saxon  thane; 
Columbus  in  his  cockleshell ;  De  Soto  grim,  who 

saw  and  died; 
Magellan;  Drake,  the  buccaneer  —  the  ancient 

spur  was  in  their  side; 

56 


THE  WESTERN  GOAD 

It  splashed  the  blood  of  all  that  blazed,  beyond 
the  earlier-comers*  ken, 

The  wilderness;  it  stabbed  the  flanks  of  hun- 
ger-hardened prairie-men; 

It  urged  the  bandaged  feet  across  the  Rockies, 
won  Sierra  gold. 

Till  now  it  pauses  at  the  shore  past  which  the 
New  becomes  the  Old; 

For    but    a    breathing-space!     In    man,    who 

neither  may  retreat  nor  stay, 
Though  wet  with  sweat  and  dripping  red,  the 

primal  impulse  has  its  way: 
Careless  of  life  and  eager-eyed,  the  race  pursues 

the  recreant  sun. 
Till  Orient  is  Occident,  till  all  the  East  and 

West  are  one. 


57 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Man's  saviours  are  men's  martyrs  —  even  thus 

It  hath  been  written,  and  must  ever  be ; 
Souls  born  for  sacrifice  vicarious, 

They   bring  us   life    and  we   repay   with 
death, 
Whether  the  vision  that  their  sad  eyes  see, 
Portentous  with  the  ultimate  agony. 
Appear  in  Illinois  or  Nazareth. 

So  also  Lincoln,  steadfast,  gentle,  strong. 

Both  human  and  divine,  to  whom  God  yet 
Gave  the  glad  triumph,  and  withheld  the  long 
Ordeal  of  the  aftermath. —  Because 
Of  that  no  man  can  think  with  terror  or 

regret 
Upon  the  end :  serene  at  last,  he  met 

Death  in  the  first  swift  moment  of  ap- 
plause. 

He  is  not  ours  to  weep,  nor  ours  to  praise  — 

Not  the  great  North  that  put  upon  his  brow 
Its  laurels ;  not  the  South  that,  in  the  days 

58 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

Of    conflict,    faced    the    grim-determined 
odds 
Destined  to  conquer,  impotent  to  cow ; 
Not  all  America  may  claim  him  now : 

Forevermore  he  is  Mankind's  and  God's  I 


59 


HEROES  OF  YESTERDAY 

Grant  Is  asleep  in  his  great  white  tomb,  where 
the  Hudson  tides  are  deep; 

And  Sheridan  and  Sherman  lie  on  marble  beds 
asleep ; 

And  all  the  men  that  led  our  men  on  the  bloody 
fields  we  won 

Lie  'neath  the  marble  meet  for  them  that  he- 
roes' work  have  done; 

But  what  of  the  men  the  heroes  led  —  of  Smith 
and  Robinson? 

It  was  good  to  die  on  the  firing-line  if  you  died 
to  set  men  free; 

It  was  good  to  die  when  the  cannon  screamed 
in  the  days  of  Sixty-three ; 

And  we,  of  a  younger,  softer  race  —  we  look 
with  a  brief  regret 

At  the  modest  mounds  where  the  unknown  dead 
are  modest  and  silent  yet : 

Smith  and  Robinson  lie  so  still  —  and  we  for- 
get —  forget  I 
60 


HEROES  OF  YESTERDAY 

And  other  Smiths  and  Robinsons  —  you  count 

them  on  your  hand  — 
Today  go  hobbling  up  the  street,  behind  the 

village  band, 
To    where    encamped    their    comrade-dead    in 

sunken  bivouac  lie; 
Fresh  lilies  in  their  withered  hands,  the  old,  old 

men  go  by  — 
The   Robinsons   and   Smiths,   you   know,   that 

hadn't  the  luck  to  die. 

Oh,  can't  you  see,  and  won't  you  see,  and  won't 

you  hold  it  true. 
That  these  old  men  had  ties  as  dear  to  them  as 

yours  to  you? 
And  won't  you  quit  your  secret  sneer  and  open, 

empty  praise  — 
The  Inward  smile  at  the  selfsame  while  you 

wreath  the  formal  bays  — 
To  pay  the  simple  debt  you  owe  these  men  of 

other  days  ? 

The  things  they  loved  they  left,  and  died  —  or 

those  who  still  endure 
A  moment  longer  stumble  on,  decrepit,  smiled 

at,  poor  I 

6i 


HEROES  OF  YESTERDAY 

Is  this  the  lot  that  you  decree 
To  them  who  risked,  to  set  men  free, 
All  that  was  theirs  to  do  or  be? 
Sheridan,  Sherman,  Grant  —  is  this  the  end  of 

all  they  won? 
Is  this  their  country's  payment  to  Smith  and 
Robinson? 


62 


MEXICO 

{Pershing  Punitive  Column,  igi6.) 

Fifty  miles  to  Carrizal;  sage-brush,  sand  and 
flies; 

If  a  fellow  falls  behind  —  well,  a  fellow  dies. 

Nothing  much  in  front  of  us  but  the  baking 
sun; 

Less'n  nothing  back  behind:  I  mean  Washing- 
ton— 

Out  in  front  Carranza's  men,  hardly  safe  by 
night. 

Back' behind  a  government  still  too  proud  to 
fight. 

Yesterday  our  *'  allies  "  stood  grinning  to  the 

last 
While  the  village  cut-ups  here  stoned  us  when 

we  passed; 
Day  before  a  scout  was  "lost*' — and  found 

without  his  toes; 

63 


MEXICO 

To-morrow  — 'bout  to-morrow  the  good  Lord 
only  knows. 

Had  a  dream  the  other  night  —  and,  say,  it  was 

a  peach: 
All  the  sand  was  presidents,  and  every  grain  a 

speech ; 
Every  grain  was  graceful  words,   and  every 

word  hot  stuff; 
But  a  wind  from  'cross  the  sage-brush  called 

the  scintillating  bluff. 

That  is  all  about  myself  ('cept  I'm  seeing  red, 
Watchful-waiting  for  a  shot  to  get  me  in  the 

head: 
Guns  are  not   for  use,   I   know  —  that's  the 

''  Higher  Law  "— 
Down  here  saying  "  Thank  you  "  when  they 

punch  me  in  the  jaw!  ) 

But  to-day  we  got  some  news  —  got  it  by  the 

grace 
Of  a  "  Mexican  "  lieutenant  (Jena  sword-scars 

on  his  face!)  — 
Got  the  news  from  Carrizal;  and  we  thank  God 

to-night 

64 


MEXICO 

For  Boyd,  Adair  and  fifty  coons  not  too  proud 
to  fight. 

Take  their  murdered  bodies  up,  calk  'em  from 

the  sun  — 
We  let  'em  die,  but  now,  oh,  my:  a  plot  in 

Arlington ! 
Dead-march!     Cart  'em  'cross  the  Bridge,  a 

flag  atop  of  each. 
And  ship  one  to  the  White  House,  so  a  man 

may  make  a  speech. 

Will  he  see  it  when  it  goes  past  him  in  its  pall  ? 
Will  he  have  the  nerve  to  say  anything  at  all? 
Bet  your  life!     The  brook  of  words  babbles 

day  and  night  — 
Here's  your  dead.  Your  Excellency  Still-Too- 

Proud-To-Fight ! 

Fifty  miles  from  Carrizal:  half-past  time  to 

die  — 
We  don't  mind  the  dying,  but  we'd  like  to  know 

the  why. 
If  we  weren't  sent  here  to   shoot    (and  we 

weren't,  it's  clear), 
Tell  us,  Mr.  President,  why  in  Hell  we're  here. 

65 


MEXICO 

What's  the  use  of  bluffing  when  the  Greaser's 

got  us  right? 
He's  no  kind  of  talker,  but  he's  not  too  proud 

to  fight  I 


66 


NOCTURNE 

Little  crescent  moon, 

Swaying  at  tiptoe  on  the  top  of  yonder 

bare  hill, 
Yellow  moon 

With  ragged  inward  edge, 
Weary  moon. 

Staggering  over  the  hilltop, 
Drunken  moon: 

I  think  you  have  had  to  regard 
The  nights  of  the  world  too  long; 
The  things  you  have  had  to  look  at 
Frightened  you  and  sickened  you; 

For  in  the  beginning 

You  saw  your  Earth  beautiful, 

And  then  you  had  to  watch  what  men  did 

to  it 
And  to  mankind. 


67 


NOCTURNE 

No  wonder, 

Through  the  shadows  of  your  day, 

You  have  plunged 

Into  some  drugged  pool 

Among  the  waste 

Between  the  flying  stars; 

No  wonder  you  have  gulped  down  death, 

Little  crescent  moon, 

Swaying  at  tiptoe 

On  the  top  of  yonder  hill. 


68 


JUSTICE 

My  friend  the  Judge  is  pink  and  fat; 
A  ruby  gleams  from  his  cravat; 
And  when  a  street-girl  pale  and  thin 
Tells  in  his  court  her  life  of  sin, 
He  vindicates  morality  — 
That  phrase  is  his,  and  well  may  be! 
By  listening  to  her  sordid  tale 
And  sending  her  straightway  to  jail: 
He  shakes  his  venerable  head. 

Then  shakes  the  prison-keys. 
{She  sells  her  body  for  her  bread: 

He  sells  his  soul  for  ease.) 

My  landlord  leads  a  righteous  life, 

Providing  for  his  child  and  wife 

By  buying  cheap  from  who  must  sell 

And  selling  dear  to  who  must  buy; 
He  would  not  steal ;  he  would  not  tell. 

Even  to  save  himself,  a  lie; 
But  an  embezzling  clerk,  his  niece, 
69 


JUSTICE 

He  handed  to  the  town  police : 

"  A  cheat,"  he  said,  with  solemn  nod. 
(Yet  he  was  given  the  gift  of  life 
And  squandered  it  for  child  and  wife: 

Has  he  not  cheated  God?) 

Because  twelve  men  convicted  her, 
They  hanged  a  girl  in  Lancaster 

Today  at  rise  of  sun, 
Who  killed  her  false  love's  love-child.      (/. 
Who  in  my  soul  have  slain  at  birth 
So  many  selves  of  promised  worth, — 

What  murders  I  have  done  I) 


70 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  TALONS 

That  soap-box  orator  uptown 
Kicks  'cause  the  apples  all  fall  down: 
I  don't  care  what  such  people  say, 
Apples  were  made  to  fall  that  way. 


Our  Boss,  he  builds  his  mill  foursquare 
With  money  made  I  can't  say  where ; 
He  offers  me  ''  The  Right  to  Work  "— 
And  wages?     Well,  he  pays  me  just 
Enough,  If  I  don't  sicken  or  shirk. 
To  keep  my  body  from  the  dust. 
He  gives  me  leave  to  live,  and  I 
Give  him  the  work  he  lives  on,  which 
Seems  right  enough;  for  I  don't  die. 
And  he  keeps  on  a-getting  rich. 
"  Small  wage !  "  say  you,  and  "  Why  so?  "■ 

Well, 
Upon  my  word  I  cannot  tell. 


71 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  TALONS 

Perhaps  the  Boss,  like  any  man, 

Pays  a  small  wage  because  he  can; 

His  money  is  his  own,  you  bet! 

And  mine?     Why,  mine's  what  I  can  get  I 


72 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  HUNGRY 

MEN 

In  the  dreams  of  your  downy  couches,  through 

the  shades  of  your  pampered  sleep, 
Give  ear :  you  can  hear  it  coming,  the  tide  that 

is  steady  and  deep  — 
Give  ear,  for  the  sound  is  growing,  from  desert 

and  dungeon  and  den: 
The  tramp  of  the  marching  millions,  the  March 

of  the  Hungry  Men. 

As  once  the  lean-limbed  Spartans  at  Locris'  last 

ascent. 
As  William's  Norman  legions  through  Sussex 

meadows  went, 
As  Wolfe  assailed  the  mountain,  as  Sherman 

led  the  way 
From  Fulton  to  Savannah  —  as  they,  and  more 

than  they. 


73 


THE  MARCH  OF  HUNGRY  MEN 

There  comes  another  army  your  wit  cannot 
compute : 

The  men-at-arms  self-fashioned,  the  man  you 
made  the  brute, 

From  farm  and  sweatshop  gathered,  from  fac- 
tory, mine  and  mill. 

With  lever  and  shears  and  auger,  dibble  and 
drift  and  drill. 


They  bear  nor  sword  nor  rifle,  yet  their  ladders 
are  on  your  walls. 

Though  the  hauberk  is  turned  to  a  jumper,  the 
jambeaux  to  overalls; 

They  come  from  the  locomotive,  the  cab  and 
the  cobbler's  bench; 

They  are  armed  with  the  pick  and  the  jack- 
plane,  the  sledge  and  the  axe  and  the 
wrench. 

And    some    come    empty-handed   with    fingers 

gnarled  and  strong, 
And  some  come  dumb  with  sorrow,  and  some 

.    sway  drunk  with  song; 
But  all  that  you  thought  were  buried  are  stir- 
ring and  lithe  and  quick  — 
74 


THE  MARCH  OF  HUNGRY  MEN 

And  they  carry  a  brass-bound  scepter :  the  brass 
composing-stick. 

Through  the  depths  of  the  Devirs  Darkness, 

with  the  distant  stars  for  light, 
They  are  coming  the  while  you  slumber,  and 

they  come  with  the  might  of  Right; 
On  a  morrow  —  perhaps  tomorrow  —  you  will 

waken  and  see,  and  then 
You  will  hand  the  keys  of  your  cities  to  the 

ranks  of  the  Hungry  Men. 


75 


MY  BROTHER 

''  And  he  said  unto  him,  Man,  who  made  me 
a  judge,  or  a  divider  over  you?  '' —  St.  Luke, 
xii,  14. 

I  cannot  see  what  many  see  \ 
A  Heaven  distant  from  the  clod; 

For  I  behold,  not  two  or  three, 
But  all  our  persons  in  One  God. 

For  most,  the  Birth  'mid  portents  wild, 

The  cryptic  Youth  half-sorcerer; 
For  me  the  unnoted,  mangered  child, 

The  manly,  sweating  carpenter;  — 
No  great  detective  in  the  skies; 

No  crafty  hand  that  builds  a  snare, 
And  then,  all  powerfully  wise, 

Kills  me  because  I  venture  there; 
But  Him  of  Sorrows,  who  forgave 

The  woman  taken  in  her  sin, 
Who  had  the  human  heart  to  save 

The  sorry-painted  Magdalen. 
J76 


MY  BROTHER 

Jesus,  they  reverence  your  name  — 

Before  your  altar  bowing  low  — 
But  would  their  tongues  have  been  aflame, 

These  nineteen  hundred  years  ago? 
Are  you  their  Lord,  your  servants  those 

That  for  your  garments  would  have  diced? 
Who  wills  may  dread  the  Master's  blows  — 

/  am  your  weaker  brother,  Christ! 


77 


A  CHILD  PARALYTIC 

Daily  her  wistful  face  looks  out 

Above  the  sordid  street, 
Through  all  December's  driven  snows, 

Through  all  the  August  heat  — 
A  little  captive  of  the  slums, 

Unenvious  and  sweet. 

The  other  children  run  below, 

On  play  or  errand  bent; 
She  looks  at  them  from  dawn  to  dark 

With  great  brown  eyes  intent. 
Breaking  all  shackles  of  the  flesh 

In  that  high  tenement. 

Yet  he  who  passes  day  by  day, 

And  they  who  minister 
Beside  her  to  the  few  cheap  wants, 

Like  an  awed  worshipper 
Wonder,  before  that  placid  brow; 

"  What  use  Is  life  to  her?  " 
78 


A  CHILD  PARALYTIC 

What  use  ?     The  great  and  only  use ! 

The  chance  to  meet  her  fate 
With  folded  hands  and  cheerful  heart 

And  stalwart  soul  elate, 
To  crush  the  world  'neath  stricken  heel, 

To  suffer  and  to  wait. 

O,  brave,  sad  smile  that  put  to  shame 

My  anguish  of  a  day, 
I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  tell 

And  more  than  I  can  pay: 
A  lesson  for  the  hour's  need, 

And  courage  for  alwayl 


79 


THE  SEEKER 

"  I,  too,  was  born  in  Arcady  " ; 
Yet  all  your  wise-men's  wit 

Can  never  lead  me  back,  and  I  — 
Try  as  I  dp,  and  try  and  try  — 
Must  work  and  wait  and  live  and  die. 
Remembering  and  regretting  itl 

I  see  the  whole  world  sick  to  be 
One  moment  like  my  Arcady  — 
My  native,  loved,  lost  Arcady  — 

In  these  last  days  of  Time; 
And,  oh,  before  your  dull  sun  drops 
Behind  your  prisoning  mountaintops, 

I  want  to  shout : 

"  Come  out!     Come  out! 
One  step  beyond  those  peaks  will  he 
The  flowered  fields  of  Arcady ; 
Take  heart,  he  hrave,  and  climhf 

"  Just  there,  across  the  eternal  snows, 
Eternal  Summer  huds  and  blows; 

80 


THE  SEEKER 

Could  we  a  little  farther  see, 

Could  we  but  hear  —  hut,  oh,  we  can!  — 
There  are  the  nymphs  upon  the  lea; 

There  —  hark!  —  there  sound  the  Pipes 
of  Pan! 
One  brief  ascent,  and  even  we, 

The  slaves  of  Time, 
Shall  hear  and  see. 
Be  glad  and  free  — 
Oh,  climb!'' 

And  then  —  and  then  I  know  in  vain 

I  plead  with  you,  for  even  I 
Can  nevermore  return  again : 

I  work  and  wait  and  live  and  die 
An  exile  out  of  Arcady, 
With  nothing  left  but  memory 
Beneath  your  peaks  of  snow: 

"  I,  too,  was  born  in  Arcady  " — 
But  that  was  long  ago. 


8t 


ST.  PAUL'S  SCHOOL 

(Concord,  N.  H.) 

'^  Ea  discamus  in  terris  quorum  scientia 
perseveret  in  coelis.'^ 

Mother  of  men!     The  grave  New  Hampshire 

hills 
That  gird  thee  round  are  not  more  staunch  than 

thou ; 
The  token  that  Is  bound  upon  thy  brow 
Proclaims  the  motive  that  thy  life  fulfills. 
Molder  of  thousand  many-molding  wills, 
Well  keepestthou  the  purport  of  thy  vow: 
On  earth  to  inculcate  what  shall  endow 
Our  hearts  in  Heaven  past  all  carnal  Ills. 
Far,  far  behind  me  on  the  glowing  track 
At  manhood's  dawn  thy  battlements  I  see, 
Glowing  to  gold  within  the  purple  rack 
Of  Life's  red  morning,  beautiful  and  free: 
Through  all  the  empty  years  my  heart  goes 

back, 
My  Mother,  O  my  Mother,  back  to  thee  I 

82 


THE  SUBURBANITE 

The  5:19  pulls  darkly  out 

The  train-shed,  and  the  city-folk 
Throng  down  the  avenue  above 

From  daily  grind  to  nightly  yoke; 
They  do  not  stop  to  think  how  I, 

After  the  murk  of  working-hours, 
In  this  dull  train  am  going  home 

To  rest  and  flowers. 

Dingy  and  draughty  coaches,  yours, 

Grim  5  :i9,  once  young  and  bold; 
We  both,  who  have  been  friends  so  long, 

At  last,  I  fean  are  growing  old; 
But  should  they  "  take  you  off  "  ere  I 

Am  taken  off  and  reach  my  end, 
I'd  miss  you,  crusty,  tardy,  true. 

As  I  should  miss  a  valued  friend. 

Oh,  when  that  other  train  shall  bear 
My  outworn  vesture  from  the  shed 
83 


THE  SUBURBANITE 

Of  work  and  play,  from  town  and  home 
When  I,  who  was  alive,  am  dead  — 

May  I,  thus  darkly  passing  forth. 
Go  unregarded  and  unseen 

To  find,  as  now,  my  rest  and  flowers, 
Old  5:191 


84 


THE  GOTHAMITE 

The  Spring  skips  lightly  up  Broadway 

In  all  its  old-time  tinsel  dight, 
With  lures  of  country  fields  by  day 

And  rural  lovers'  lanes  at  night; 
It  whispers  of  the  evening  star 

Aglow  ere  yet  the  sun  goes  down, 
Of  lyric  scents  and  birds  that  are 

Impossible  in  town. 

I  like  the  country  well  enough, 

But  not  enough  to  venture  there ; 
New  York  has  lanes  to  spare  for  love, 

And  grass  is  green  in  Union  Square. 
Against  the  glowing  evening  star 

No  criticism  have  I  heard  — 
But  then  the  lights  are  brighter  far 

From  Thirty-fifth  to  Fifty-third. 

While  human  nightingales  are  free 
In  spotlight  and  Parisian  gown, 

85 


THE  GOTHAMITE 

Not  all  the  feathered  birds  that  be 
Can  tempt  my  taxi  out  of  town. 

I  love  the  scented  April  rains 
In  field  and  fen  aflush  for  May; 

But  Spring,  though  sweet  in  wooded  lanes, 
Is  sweeter  on  Broadway. 


86 


RETURN 

"  The  city  for  the  winter!  "     Back  from  play, 
Fagged  by  the  evanescent  gilt-and-white 
Of  your  false  summer-town  in  tinsel  dight 
That  mimics  freedom  in  a  landlocked  bay: 
''  The  city  for  the  winter  —  crowded  way 
Where   Progress    builds   his   walls   to   Babel' 

height." 
Defiant  day  stares  at  auriferous  night, 
And  night,  the  profligate,  deflowers  day! 
No  town  for  me  I     Give  me  the  untrodden 

shore 
Of  rending  seas  —  give  me  the  winter-wood  — 
Nature  in  arctic  anger  —  she  whose  lust 
Of  torture  thwarts  your  toil  forevermore, 
Who  set  a  desert  where  Tyre's  towers  stood 
And  shall  endure  when  all  your  towns  are  dust. 


87 


WAR 

**  Encore  une  fois,  je  n^aime  point  la  guerre; 
mais  quand  on  est  oblige  de  la  faire,  il  ne  faut 
pas  se  battre  mollementJ' —  VoLTAiRE :  Cor- 
respondance,  Generale, 

igi6 

Fm  walking  down  a  street  I  know, 

A  pretty  nurse  to  steer  me  — 
At  least  they  say  she's  pretty  —  and 

Just  hear  the  people  cheer  me; 
I've  a  medal  on  my  uniform: 

It  seems  so  good  I'd  doubt  it, 
If  I  couldn't  feel  it  dangling  there 

And  hear  the  people  shout  it: 

"  Why^  you*re  blind  —  blind  —  blind! 
JVonU  you  come  and  tell  your  story? 
Ifs  for  us  you  suffered  blindness  — 
Here's  the  People's  grateful  kindness: 
This  beribboned  decoration 
Shouts  the  thanks  of  all  the  nation. 
You  gave  more  than  life  to  save  us 
88 


WAR 

From  the  foes  that  would  enslave  us! 
Do  you  think  we  can  forget  it? 
No,  you  never  will  regret  it! 
This  is  honor;  this  is  glory! '' — 
So  they  shout  it  down  the  wind  — 

**  Won^t  you  come  and  tell  your  story? 
Tell  us  how  you  won  the  glory 
That  so  many  fail  to  find: 
How  Our  Hero  won  the  glory 
Of  The  Blind? '' 

So  I  tell  them  of  our  icy  nights 

And  days  in  dead-heaped  trenches; 
I  tell  them  of  our  woundeds'  shrieks, 

Our  filthy  bodies*  stenches; 
I  tell  them  of  the  bursting  shells 

That  deafened  half  who  heard  them; 
Of  men  made  mad  by  horrors  that  — 

I  haven't  words  to  word  them  I 
I  tell  them  how  my  only  friend 

Before  our  trench  was  potted, 
And  how  I  had  to  sit  for  days 

And  watch  him  while  he  rotted; 
Of  gas  that  strangled  hundreds  here, 

Flung-flames  that  there  shamed  thunder; 
Of  spikes  that  dropped  from  flying-craft 

89 


WAR 

And  tore  men's  heads  asunder; 
Of  how  the  worst  was  sitting  still 

With  every  second's  fraction 
An  hour  long,  till  veterans  screamed 

In  terror  from  inaction; 
Of  death  —  and  how  we  longed  for  death 

To  ease  that  bloody  slavery; 
But  how  our  hearts  were  brave  because 
Our  Country  needed  bravery; 

And  how  at  last  —  at  that  long  last  — 

Before  I'd  had  two  tries 
To  use  my  gun,  a  belch  of  flame 

Burst  —  and  burnt  out  my  eyes.  ... 

They've  crowded  'round  and  crowded  close 
And  sworn  and  shoved  to  hear  me, 

And,  now  I've  done, 

You'd  think  I'd  won 

The  war,  the  way  they  cheer  me : 

"  Hero   blind  —  hlind  —  blind; 
All  the  land  shall  learn  your  story! 
Nor  your  wife  nor  child  shall  per* 

ish  — 
Them  we^ll  care  for,  you  we'll  cher* 
ish. 

90 


WAR 

Though  you  see  not,  yet  our  praise 
You  shall  hear  through  all  your  days/ 
On  our  memories  we^ll  burn  it; 
Every  childish  lip  shall  learn  itJ* — 
"  Bless  my  baby  for  me,  Mister?  " 
(So   Fve  bent   and   felt   and  kissed 

her.)  — 
"  Let  me  cut  that  button  yellow?  " — 
"  Let  me  shake  your  hand,  brave  fel- 
low! "— 
**  Do  you  think  we  can  forget  it? 
No,  you  never  will  regret  it! 
You  have  earned  our  best  oblation: 
You,  who've  helped  to  save  the  na- 
tionf' 
This  Is  honor;  this  glory 
More  than  I  had  hoped  to  find: 
This  reward  for  my  poor  story. 
And  the  price  I  paid  for  glory, 
For  the  kindness  of  my  kind, 

It  is  small :  this  care  and  glory 
Cheaply  bought  by  being  blind  I 


91 


WAR 

1936 

Yes,  here's  the  accustomed  place  at  last  — 

My  dog's  pause  tells  me  that  — 
This  Is  the  trench  that  I  must  guard 
For  coppers  in  my  hat. 
{Pity  the  Blind! 
Be  kind!     Be  kind!) 
My  wife?     Fm  almost  glad  she's  dead! 

{Was  that  approaching  feet?) 
And  now,  Instead  of  me,  It  Is 
My  child  that  walks  the  street: 
{Be  kind  —  he  kind! 
Pity  the  blind!) 
A  beggar's  daughter  hasn't  much 

To  keep  her  clean  and  sweet.  ^ 

I  ask  them  If  they  please  won't  stop 
{Pity  the  blind! 
Be  kind;  be  kind!) 
And  hear  the  things  Fve  seen, 
And  how  I  came  to  this  by  fire, 

A  soldier  In  '16  — 
And  then  I  hear  them  turn  and  go. 
And,  from  a  muttered  curse  or  so, 
I  know  these  are  their  thoughts  —  I  know. 
"  Beggar  blind  —  blind  —  blind! 
9Z 


WAR 

Who  has  time  to  hear  your  story? 
It  is  old,  and  we  have  heard  it 
Till  we  know  it  word  for  word,  it 
Is  but  one  of  legions,  massing 
With  each  hurried  year  that's  pass- 
ing. 
Money?     Press  the  softer  pedal! 
Why  not  go  and  pawn  your  medal? 
(Though,  of  course,   there's  such  a 

plenty, 
*Twouldn't  bring  much,  after  twenty 
Years  of  soldiers  dead  or  poorer 
Every  year  —  there's  nothing  surer.) 
Wounded,  were  you,  for  the  Nation? 
Well,  it  gave  that  decoration. 
Pensions?     What,    for    deeds    long 
dead? 
'  The  Public  has  to  look  ahead!  " 
So  they  shout  it  down  the  wind! 
This  is  honor;  this  is  glory; 
This  is  how  I  end  my  story: 
On  a  curb-stone  in  the  muck  — 
They  that  died  had  all  the  luck. 
Scarcely  what  I  hoped  to  find  I 

If  the  chance  returned,  why,  then  — 
No,  Fd  do  it  all  again! 
93 


WAR 

Just  repeat  the  same  life-story, 

Minus  pension,  minus  glory, 
And  the  kindness  of  my  kind. 

Being  that  sort,  who  wants  a  story? 

Being  a  soldier,  who  wants  glory 
That  so  many  fail  to  find  ? 

No,  I  never  looked  for  glory! — -. 
{Pity  the  Blind!) 


94 


LUPERCALIA 

Roisterers,  vagabonds  forever  free, 
Mendicants,   blacksheep,   hybrids  —  what  you 

please  — 
We  makers  of  the  merry  melodies, 
Great  Pan,  we  make  our  only  prayer  to  thee. 
For  thee  alone  our  canticles  will  be  — 
To  thee,  for  thine  Arcadian  heartsease, 
We  sing  thy  nymphs  beneath  Lycaean  trees 
Till  all  their  pulses  thrill  in  harmony. 
Wanderers  all,  to  thee  we  wander  far, 
And  vow  our  hymns  the  Syrinx  of  thy  nod, 
Holding  thine  ill-begotten  features  fair, 
Because  thou  only,  knowing  what  we  are. 
Beneath  the  brute  wilt  find  the  hidden  god. 
Beneath  the  sneer  wilt  read  the  great  despair. 


95 


ROMANCE 

Oh,  she's  just  around  the  corner,  and  she's  just 
beyond  this  street. 
And  she's  just  across  that  hilltop  over  there  I 
Can't  you  see  the  last  glad  glimmer  of  her  ever- 
flying  feet. 
Can't  you  smell  the  luring  perfume  of  her 
hair? 

She  is  always  just  beyond  you,  always  singing 
down  the  wind 
With  a  breath  that's  raped  from  roses  and  a 
voice  that's  like  a  spell: 
Singing,  singing  —  can't  you  hear  her?  — 
Singing:     **  Come  a  little  nearer! 
Follow^  oh,  so  little  faster;  I  am  losing;  come 
and  find! 
I  am  all  the  dreams  you  never  dared  to  tell! 

''  /  am  youth  and  I  am  gladness;  Fm  adventure 
and  Fm  love; 
96 


ROMANCE 

/  am  flowers  in  the  forest  when  the  planets 
are  atune; 
I  am  all  those  golden  chances  daily  work  was 
heedless  of; 
I  am  final;  I  am  fatal;  I  am  June!  '^ 

When  the  grinding  tasks  are  dullest,  and  the 
world  is  grey  routine, 
You  can  see  her  if  you'll  only  raise  your 
head; 
When  the  ledgers  will  not  balance,  or  the  firm- 
est stocks  careen, 
She  is  calling  from  the  latest  breeze  that 
sped: 

*^  Come  and  find  me,  come  and  hind  me,  come 
and  loose  and  fare  with  me; 
All  I  ask  is  that  you  cast  all  else  away  with- 
out regret; 
Though  you  sacrifice  to  capture, 
I  am  roses,  I  am  rapture; 
I  will  take  you  dancing  —  dancing  —  through 
the  farthest  fairy  sea; 
I  will  teach  you  all  the  visions  you  forget!  " 


97 


ROMANCE 

Follow,  follow  'round  the  corner ;  hurry  on  be- 
yond the  street; 
Run  to  dimb  that  highest  hilltop  over  there : 
Though  she  slays  you  when  you  find  her,  there 
Is  nothing  half  so  sweet 
As  to  strangle  in  the  meshes  of  her  hair! 


98 


TIME'S  REVENGES 

The  portraits  hung  together  there 
Beside  the  old  door's  architrave: 

A  little,  girl  with  yellow  hair, 
A  beldam  tottering  to  her  grave. 

"Grandmother  and  grandchild?"  I  said. 

Without  a  change  of  glance  or  tone, 
My  cicerone  shook  his  head: 

"  The  child  was  mother  to  the  crone." 


99 


TROIA  FUITI 

The  world  was  wide  when  I  was  young 
My  schoolday  hills  and  dales  among; 
But,  oh,  it  needs  no  Puck  to  put, 
With  whipping  wing  and  flying  foot, 
A  girdle  round  the  narrow  sphere 
In  which  I  labor  now  and  here ! 

Life's  face  was  fair  when  careless  I 
First  loved  beneath  an  April  sky. 
And  wept  those  fine-imagined  woes 
That  Youth  at  nineteen  thinks  it  knows; 
Now  love  and  woe  both  run  so  deep 
I  have  not  any  time  to  weep. 

"  Ah,  well !     Although  at  last  we  see 
That  what  was  could  not  always  be, 
It  binds  our  loins  and  steels  our  hands 
In  duller  days  and  smaller  lands 
To  recollect  the  country  where 
The  world  was  wide  and  life  was  fair. 

lOO 


THE  NINETY  MILLIONS 

{A  Song  of  Thanksgiving) 

This  day  for  thanks  to  God  on  high,  borne  up- 
ward through  the  chilly  air! 

Here,  underneath  the  scudding  sky,  the  Ninety 
Millions  kneel  in  prayer. 

For  all  we  lose,  for  all  we  gain,  for  all  we  flout 
and  all  we  prize. 

Accept,  O  God,  our  humble,  vain,  but  not  un- 
worthy, sacrifice! 

The  olden  order  still  endures:  the  strong  are 

strong,  the  feeble  spent, 
As  if  the  enabling-act  were  Yours,  Wrong  sits 

enthroned,  omnipotent; 
One  sins  and  many  must  atone;  the  thief  is  in 

his  high  estate; 
Who  begs  for  bread  receives  a  stone,  and  love 

has  learned  the  words  of  hate. 

And  yet  we  thank  You,  Lord,  becguse  of  that 
immutable  decree 

101 


THE  NINETY  MILLIONS 

Which  wrote  the  universal  laws  and  whispered 
to  man's  mind:     "  Be  Free!  " 

Because  You  granted  him  the  will  to  fight  until 
his  final  breath, 

To  suffer  and  to  bear,  until  Hope's  smile  en- 
wreathes  the  lips  of  Death. 

For  the  ideals  that  wing  our  feet  throughout 
the  chaos  and  the  night. 

For  the  high  heart  that  in  defeat  throbs  only 
to  renew  the  fight, 

For  the  new  chance  to  try  again,  the  onward 
flag,  the  unbroken  ranks. 

Accept,  O  God,  our  humble,  vain,  but  not  un- 
worthy, meed  of  thanks. 


lOZ 


"AND  THERE  WERE 
SHEPHERDS  " 

The  night  was  calm,  the  night  was  clear, 

The  unexpectant  night  was  cold; 
The  earth  was  ruled  by  hate  and  fear, 

The  earth  was  sad  and  mad  and  old; 
And  Herod  in  his  palace  pent, 

Augustus  at  his  apogee: 
The  song?     They  knew  not  what  it  meant! 

A  promise-star?     They  could  not  see! 

But  far  upon  Judean  farms 

The  farmfolk  watched  their  herds  by  night, 
Beyond  Herodian  alarms, 

Beyond  Augustan  thirst  for  might. 
And  heard  and  saw,  with  quick  release 

Of  angels  down  the  purple  way. 
The  song  that  sang  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

The  star  that  pointed  where  He  lay. 

Not  to  an  emperor  in  Rome 
Or  king  in  brown  Jerusalem, 
103 


"  AND  THERE  WERE  SHEPHERDS  " 

Did  any  word  of  It  come  home; 

Not  to  the  lordllngs  —  not  to  them : 
The  night-wind  bore  no  anodyne 

For  ears  too  dull,  for  eyes  too  dim; 
Only  the  wise-men  saw  the  sign, 

Only  the  farmfolk  heard  the  hymn. 

Tonight  the  air  is  calm  and  clear, 

The  unexpectant  earth  Is  sad 
With  hate  and  war;  with  blood  and  fear 

The  emperors  and  kings  are  mad :  — 
The  farmfolk  and  the  wise-men  are 

The  wise-men;  ere  the  midnight  cease 
They  hail  aright,  aglow,  afar, 
The  Herald  Angels  and  the  star 

That  point  the  open  path  to  Peace. 


104 


EASTER— 1917 

"  He  Descended  Into  Hell " 
Hope  there  was  none;  it  had  fled  at  the  word 

of  the  witnessing  eye ; 
The  man  they  had  thought  God  was  dead :  from 

afar  they  had  watched  him  die. 
God  ?     They  had  seen  him  scourged,  with  the 

eyes  of  the  flesh  they  had  seen; 
Even  she  he  forgave  and  purged  knew  it,  the 

Magdalene ; 
And  even  his  mother,  the  first  to  feel  faith's 

flame  astir. 
Knew  that  the  lips  she  had  nursed  were  sealed 

in  a  sepulchre: 
The    God-that-was-man   that   night   had   gone 

where  a  dead  man  goes  — 
And  then,  with  the  morning  light,  the  Man 

That  Was  God  arose! 

Thus  is  the  story  told  the  weary  ages  through. 
For  no  man's  faith  is  cold  whose  need  keep§ 
the  legend  new, 
XP3 


EASTER— 19 17 

And  the  world  that  is  growing  old  needs  it 
and  makes  it  true. 

Each  weaves  his  plans  alone  —  and  they  part 

like  a  sand-made  rope, 
And  this  is  all  that  we  own  at  the  last:  this 
single  hope. 
"  Is  the  fair  fruit  rotten  at  core?     Does  God 

but  tease  us  and  lie?  " 
Is  the  love  that  is  life  no  more  than  death 
that  is  death  and  must  die  ? 
The  glacier  still  deceives  to  the  mouth  of  the 

black  crevasse, 
But  if  each  in  his  heart  believes,  then  all  at  the 
end  shall  pass; 
Doubt  that  forever  hates  kills  and  is  done 

with  you : 
Faith,  which  is  life,  creates  and  will  make 
what  it  knows  come  true  I 

But  sadder  today  than  sad  are  the  great  of 

the  world  and  the  least : 
Just  as  we  thought  we  had  risen  above  the 
beast. 
Comes  —  from  where  what  matter? — and 
Strikes,  like  another  Thor 
jo6 


EASTER— I9I7 

With  his  hammer  strong  to  shatter,  the  blood- 
red  devil,  War. 
The  thousands  in  battles  are  slain,  the  millions 

suffer  and  wait. 
The  world  In  an  iron  rain  is  a  ruin  of  madness 
and  hate. 
A  thief  unrepentant  In  pride,  for  whose  gar- 
ments his  lusts  have  diced. 
Himself  has  man  crucified,  and  with  him  re- 
crucified  Christ. 
He  shall  be  sea^led  in  the  tomb  (room  there  is 

always  there!) 
Of  malice  and  (still  there  is  room)  descend  to 
the  Hell  of  Despair. 


Hope  there  is  none;  It  has  fled  from  the 

sound  of  the  cannons'  cry; 
What  was  godlike  In  man,  is  dead;  it  is  dead. 

We  have  seen  It  die; 
There  is  no  hope  at  all,  no  token  of  life 

astir; 
Cover   Its    face   with   the   pall,    fasten   the 

sepulchre.  ... 


107 


EASTER— 1917 

No !     For  Faith  Is  alive,  even  here  for  a  world 

made  new, 
For  man's  rebirth  to  strive,  to  hope  till  the 

hope  comes  true ! 
"  Is  the  fair  fruit  rotten  at  core  —  does  God 

but  cheat  us  and  lie?  " 
Is  Faith  that  Is  Life  no  more  than  Death  that  is 

Death  and  must  die? 
Doubt  that  forever  hates  has  killed,   and  its 

worst  Is  said; 
Faith,  which  Is  life,  creates,  and  is  ready  to 

raise  the  dead. 
The  godlike  in  man :  was  it  vain  —  has  it  gone 

where  a  dead  weed  goes? 
Though  that  and  Christ  be  slain.  Faith  knows 

that  Christ  arose ! 
There  Is  the  story  told  the  weary  ages  through, 
And  the  world  that  has  grown  so  old,  needing 

It,  makes  It  true : 
At  the  depth  of  the  Night  a  pause,  a  glory 

that  blinds  our  eyes  — 
Christ  shall  rerise  because  Man,  still  divine, 

shall  arise/ 


108 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

How  I  have  loved  all  life !     The  sky  where 
our  first  hope  lingers, 
Woodland  and  field   and  river,   cafion  and 
mountain-peak; 
The  clamoring,  crowded  city,  the  tide  of  the 
clutching  fingers. 
The  War  of  the  World,  the  triumph  of  vigor, 
the  cry  of  the  weak  I 

Life  was  recurring  wonder:  the  wine-glass  full 
of  adventure. 
Love  was  at  every  turning,  labor  a  red  ro- 
mance ; 
All   of  it  beautiful,   potent  beyond  our  poor 
praise  or  blind  censure; 
And  never  a  half-step  backward,  but  ever  a 
stride  in  advance. 

What  if  the  faithless  taunt  me?     I  shall  reply: 
No  matter; 
It  is  enough  to  have  lived  here  even  a  breath- 
ing-space I 

109 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

"Death  is  the  last  forgetting?'' —     Bah!     I 
am  sick  of  your  chatter; 
Only  to  love  life  wholly:  that  is  to  see  God's 
face ! 


no 


THE  WASTREL 

Once,  when  I  was  little,  as  the  summer  night 
was  falling. 
Along  the  purple  upland  fields  I  lost  my  bare- 
foot way; 
The  road  to  home  had  disappeared,  and  fright- 
ful shadows,  crawling 
Along  the  sky-line,  swallowed  up  the  linger- 
ing light  of  day; 
And  then  I  seemed  to  hear  you 
In  the  twilight,  and  be  near  you; 
Seemed  to  hear  your  dear  voice  calling  — 
Through  the  meadows,  calling,  calling  — 
And  I  followed,  and  I  found  you, 
Flung  my  tired  arms  around  you, 
And  rested  on  the  mother-breast,  returned, 
tired  out  from  play. 

Down  the  days  from  that  day,  though  I  trod 
strange  paths  unheeding. 
Though  I  chased  the  jack-o'-lanterns  of  so 
many  maddened  years, 
III 


THE  WASTREL 

Though  I  never  looked  behind  me,  where  the 
home-lights  were  receding, 
Though  I  never  looked  ahead  enough  to  ken 
the  Inn  of  Fears; 
Still  I  knew  your  heart  was  near  me, 
That  your  ear  was  strained  to  hear  me, 
That  your  love  would  ask  no  pleading 
For  forgiveness,  but  was  pleading 
Of  itself  that,  in  disaster, 
I  should  run  to  you  the  faster 
And  be  sure  that  I  was  dearer  for  your  sacri- 
fice of  tears. 

Now  on  life's  last  Summertime  the  long  last 
dusk  is  falling. 
And  I,  who  trod  one  way  so  long,  can  tread 
no  other  way 
Until  at  death's  dim  crossroads  I  watch,  hesi- 
tant, the  crawling 
Night-passages  that  maze  me  with  the  ulti- 
mate dismay. 
Then,    when    Death    and    Doubt    shall 

bind  me  — 
Even  then  —  I  know  you'll  find  me : 
I  shall  hear  you,  Mother,  calling  — 
Hear  you  calling  —  calling  —  calling: 

112 


THE  WASTREL 

I  shall  fight  and  follow  —  find  you, 
Though   the  grave-clothes  swathe   and 
bind  you, 
And  I  know  your  love  will  answer:     "  Here's 
my  laddie  home  from  play !  " 


"3 


THE  SON  OF  JOEL 

The  poet  is  a  beggar  blind, 

Who  sings  beside  the  city  gate, 

The  while  the  busy  people  wind 
Their  daily  way  less  fortunate. 

The  many  pass  with  arrant  speed; 

The  few  remember  this  or  that; 
Some  hear  and  jeer,  some  stop  and  heed, 

And  some  drop  pennies  in  his  hat.  ... 

O,  you  that  pause  and  understand. 
Though  I  may  never  know  your  face. 

Across  the  years  I  touch  your  hand; 

I  kiss  you  through  the  leagues  of  space ! 


THE   END 


114 


<:^cf  O 


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